


Twice Alive

by waterfallliam



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterfallliam/pseuds/waterfallliam
Summary: “This place has wifi?” The man blurts, half cringing, half glaring at his own remark.“And plumbing, too,” John says. “They have wifi on the moon, why shouldn’t we?”The man’s expression hardens again. He chews his lip, making a decision. “I’ll take wifi and a room for a week.”
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68
Collections: Romancing McShep 2021





	Twice Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pegasus Motel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734203) by [Antares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antares/pseuds/Antares). 



> My fic for the Romancing McShep Reverse Art Fest 2021 inspired by Antares' amazing wallpaper [Pegasus Motel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734203)! Thank you to my lovely beta [LordAxxington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordAxxington/pseuds/LordAxxington) and to everyone for making Romancing McShep so awesome.

**2008**

John fumbles with his lighter, rolling the gun calluses on his thumb over and over the tired wheel, making his skin sting. By the time it’s lit, the car in the distance has come close enough to pull in to the gas station by the Pegasus Motel. The smoke from his cigarette winds through the glare of the headlights, curling in and in on itself. It’s fast, how it takes the edge off the twinges in his back, but temporary. He’ll probably need a soak in the tub just to ease off to sleep.

The car is red, all American muscle and cleaner than the dust weathered truck John had bought off Halling. The man who steps out is wearing a suit, cuffs rolled up and tie loose, but still horrendously out of place compared to the holes in John’s cargo shorts and faded USAF hoodie.

The man’s voice swims over to him through the fading summer heat, night time swallowing up the worst of the molasses, but still leaving everything sweating and floating.

“Just how do you figure that? Universal disgrace is not a good thing.” He’s agitated, arms flying up and down and all around to punctuate his words.

John takes another drag.

“Too much holiday—you just want me gone so you can have the lab space.” The man jostles with the pump, cinching the mobile between his ear and shoulder to open the gas cap. The next few sentences are indistinct.

Businessman? No, he mentioned a lab. He could be the head of a research institute, but Lantis is so far away from anywhere else he would have had to have been driving all day to get here.

“This is the end, Elizabeth. And it’s not my fault!”

Then the man catches John staring. His face sours. “I’ll call you back.”

John drops his cigarette and grinds it out under his flip flop. He turns to go back inside the building, the warm glow and gentle thrum of the AC beckoning.

“Hey, don’t litter!”

John ignores this. He’ll be cleaning it up come morning anyway. He does everything around here, so if he wants to wait to clean it up in the daylight, that’s his prerogative.

The man looks a little surprised to see John sitting behind the reception desk when he comes in, fingers fluttering around his tie before he pulls out his wallet.

“That’s 38.40 for the gas. It’s 20 for a night, and 80 for a week. Extra five dollars gets you wifi.” John presses a button on the boxy computer, which, like the rest of the motel, is stuck in the 90s. If he doesn’t want a room, John can just try to beat his freecell record.

“This place has wifi?” The man blurts, half cringing, half glaring at his own remark.

John can’t say he doesn’t understand. The building he’s in now is fine. Old, but clean and perfectly good place for any weary traveller to rest their head, but the wing across the parking lot is still halfway through renovations after last year’s fire. It’s how John bought this place on the cheap.

“And plumbing, too,” John says. “They have wifi on the moon, why shouldn’t we?”

The man’s expression hardens again. He chews his lip, making a decision. “I’ll take wifi and a room for a week.”

He slides over 125 dollars and his licence, which proclaims him to be Dr M. R. McKay. John painstakingly fills in the guest form, jabbing his fingers at the keys and wondering why he hasn’t just gone back to paper bookkeeping.

“I’m John, by the way. Diner’s in town, two miles that way.” He jerks his thumb vaguely towards the road.

McKay blinks at him.

“For breakfast. That thing where you eat. The thing most people do regularly.” John clarifies as he digs into the drawer for the lockbox he keeps the cash at the desk in.

“Right, yes.” McKay rolls his eyes and holds out his hand, making a come here gesture.

John hands his licence and change back, noticing how tidy McKay’s nail beds are and how strong his fingers look. He has broad shoulders, it’s possible he has hidden strength. Up close, his suit isn’t actually that expensive. A university professor then, maybe?

McKay coughs.

“Tonight, please, before you’ve wasted all of the dark I could be sleeping through.”

The computer chirps, announcing it has finished saving the file. John smiles tightly and grabs a key from the rack behind him. He gets number six, the room furthest from John’s beside reception. It’s not like the place gets enough visitors for all the rooms to be needed anyway.

McKay leaves without a goodbye, and John settles in for a round of freecell since the computer is already booted up.

The next morning Teyla visits to check up on the property. John would rather have stayed in bed, or lounged on the wicker chair on the slab of concrete outside his room slash home that counts as a porch. It’s a good ritual, letting the morning sun help him sweat out the last of yesterday’s nightmare. But instead he pulls on an old shirt and his not holey shorts and goes to meet her when he hears her car approach.

As the only investor apart from himself, she’s the reason the motel is still standing. They’ve known each other the three months he’s been here, ever since he bought the still smoking wreck off a man named Todd. He’d only been looking for a place to sleep, but with no other destination in mind except _away_ , he’d parked his car and had moved his duffel bag of possessions into his new home.

“John,” Teyla greets him with a smile. He makes them tea in the motel kitchen. It has a bar that opens onto the meagre dining area, and Teyla gracefully perches on one of the bar stools in her favourite spot, looking pleased at how neat everything is.

“How is your family?” He asks.

“Torren is well. He is learning to walk so we must make sure our home is suitably… adjusted.”

“He’ll be figuring out how to climb the kiddie fences in no time. They start young, you know.”

Teyla laughs. “Only because you will encourage him.”

John settles in beside her. He’s met her family twice, exchanging a few words about football with Kanaan and spending far longer building fortresses with Torren out of wooden blocks.

Her smile and hand on his shoulder shine through. “What about you, John?”

“Same old,” he smiles, but her gaze tells him she sees through it.

“It will take time, returning to a life like this.”

John has never had a life like this. College came closest, suddenly free of his father’s house, but he’d driven himself towards flight, just another stop in the road to freedom. Or so he’d thought. It had only been once he had been forced to stop that he’d caught up with himself.

“It took me many years, but now I have a home. I never expected it, after the storm that destroyed our old home. I never thought I could lay down my weapons. But the world can surprise you. Whatever the potential for suffering, there is the potential for joy, too.”

Sipping his tea soothes the dryness in his throat, the ginger burning slightly while the jasmine wafts up to him, not quite disguising the smell of baked earth leaking in through the kitchen windows.

“Where did you serve?”

“That is classified,” Teyla grins.

“Do you offer coffee in this establishment?” A voice interrupts. Rodney appears at the entrance, clad in pyjamas, a rather worn bathrobe, and brand new sneakers.

“John! I did not know you had guests.”

“One guest. And what we have is tea.”

“That’s a coffee machine.” McKay points behind the bar. “I’ll pay, how much can it be?”

John takes in his puffy, slightly red eyes. “This one can be on the house.”

“No wonder you can’t afford anything from this century,” McKay blurts.

“Are you really going to complain about free coffee?”

McKay shuffles to sit a couple of seats away.

“If I may ask, how are you enjoying your stay?” Teyla asks.

“It’s passable. I just,” he scrubs his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t be here. Where’s that coffee?”

John grimaces.

“Offering a breakfast service could be an idea,” Teyla says, feigning casualness.

“And like I said last time, if there aren’t enough people, there’s no point. This isn’t a bed and breakfast.”

She looks at him, eyes suggesting, _it could be._

He frowns. _No._

“It would be rustic. In a charming way,” McKay adds in a hurry.

“You just want a free breakfast along with the coffee,” John grouses.

“Thank you,” Teyla says when John doesn’t say anything further.

John takes care putting the fresh grounds into the machine and pushes the button to start the brew. He pulls two mismatched mugs off the draining board, but after that he’s run out of things to occupy his hands and turns back to the bar. It would be a convenient place to serve up a small buffet.

“Do you want the books or the inspection first?” John asks Teyla.

She finishes her cup of tea in a single gulp. “Inspection. Before it grows too hot.”

“That reminds me,” McKay says, eyes glued to the screen of his phone. “My AC broke halfway through the night. It needs fixing.”

John grits his teeth. “I’ll see to it after this.” He doesn’t know what it is about this puggish, obstinate man that sets him off one minute and makes him feel like he wants to indulge him the next.

“You’re qualified?” McKay looks up from his phone to peer down his nose at him.

John feels a crick forming in his neck as he speaks. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Rodney goes back to his phone. Teyla is on hers, too, the small smile on her face meaning Kanaan is probably sending her pictures of Torren again, which he will obligingly make the right _aw_ s and _ah_ s at when she shows him.

For now he watches the gentle rustling of the shadows of leaves on the counter, hiding then revealing a few chips and discolourations. Signs of ageing add character, John had insisted when Teyla had proposed a total remodelling which would unify both wings into one complex. He likes it better this way, with space in between for activity or avoidance. Then the coffee machine beeps, the rich smell of coffee soaking into the air.

If John could, he’d inhale it through his skin forever. He pours, receiving only a grunt from Rodney when he leaves it, milk and sugar by his hands. He takes his own and leads Teyla out the back door.

They walk around the second building slowly.

“Your wound, it is bothering you much today?”

“Could be worse.” The shrapnel had hit his lower back, right hip, buttock and thigh. The worst of it was above the waist. The doctors had said he’d never get the same range of motion as before back, and would probably be in pain for the rest of his life. If his dishonourable discharge hadn’t meant he’d never sit in a cockpit again, that would have. Fresh from the field and still sand kissed, he’d known even then.

Teyla raises her eyebrows as if to say, _could be better_.

A lone bird flies across the sky, motionless until he squints. He thinks he feels a breeze on his face, but the wet, hot puff against his lips and nose betrays the steam from his mug for what it is.

“A friend of mine has returned from sabbatical. He likes this kind of work. I think you would get along.”

John thinks about protesting. He sips his coffee instead.

“The work could be done by late autumn,” Teyla points out.

He knows he’ll be useless over winter, no doubt about that. He rubs his chin, the stubble there thick and prickly and suddenly something he wants gone. “Invite him over. _If_ we get on, we’ll do it.”

“Ronon has always expressed interest in investing in our community.”

“This counts as an investment in the community?”

Teyla punches him in the arm, not too hard, but not too lightly either.

They go over the books, the tiny AC unit in his room working overtime to chase away the soupy heat. He lets her take the plans for the new wing with her to copy for Ronon.

“What about Friday? He could join us for a cookout.”

Ah. The nebulous _cookout_ John’s been asked about since the beginning of summer. “Might as well.” He adds cleaning out the grill to his list of tasks today. “Hope he likes meat.”

“And then some,” Teyla laughs.

When she leaves, she looks like she’s about to go in for a hug and John’s heart stutters. She holds off, like John’s one of those wolves brought in from the wild because it has a broken leg, but when they try and help it, it just snaps its jaw and howls as if the air is kindling.

McKay is sat on the plastic lawn chair outside his room, furtively tugging his short clad legs back under the shade of the picnic umbrella he’s dragged over.

John hitches his toolbox up to rest on his hip. “I’m here about the broken machine?”

It hits him suddenly, how this is like the start to one of those pornos his old unit had watched. Giggling, clustered around an old television, it had seemed like the perfect idea to blow off steam before going on to greener pastures with an action flick. John had laughed along, made the right comments, even as his stomach had turned at the thought of shipping out again the next day. (Which was why Major Felhum had let them get away with it.)

“Just be quick about it.”

At least McKay’s words didn’t match the film. He’d need to be more grateful, a little desperate even. Instead he just sounds impatient. John shuts off the power at the back of the building before going in.

The room is messy, bed unmade and a mess of laptop and cables spread across the desk. Avoiding stepping on any of the clothes strewn across the floor, John drags the chair over to where he can step up to examine the wall unit.

An acrid whiff of burnt metal lingers in the air, mixing with the smells of the lemon cleaner he uses. The heat is worse inside McKay’s room than outside, humidity dripping down the back of his throat, slowly suffocating the surface of his skin.

Taking the screwdriver from his belt, John unscrews the protective panel. Burnt fuse, as suspected. He has a spare somewhere.

“Oh, burnt fuse,” McKay says, padding up to where he’s sorting through the sediment of knick knacks at the bottom of his toolbox.

“What, you an engineer now, too?”

“Close enough,” McKay grumbles, but opts for pride over prickles. “I’m an astrophysicist with a lot of hands on experience. Best in my field.”

“You ever win anything… one of those baubles?”

“You’re calling the Nobel prize a bauble?”

And if he’d won one, he’d no doubt want to show off. “Well, it’s certainly shinier than this.” He holds up the new fuse, still wrapped in plastic and paper, neon price reduction peeling.

“You shaved,” McKay says, suddenly focused. He’s a scientist, it all makes sense now. Distracted, but demanding. Probably used to having a lab of minions, but not making the big bucks, or he wouldn’t be here. So he didn’t sell out. John feels a surge of respect in his chest.

“You haven’t,” he counters.

“Not much point.”

John gets back to the job, freeing the cylinder and getting back on the chair to swap them out. Sweat beads on his lip. It tastes like dust. “Might help you feel better.”

McKay snorts. “Not a chance in hell of that.”

John can understand. He hadn’t changed out of yesterday’s clothes before bed, after all. No soak in the tub, and only half of the exercises his physical therapist had insisted he keep up. “A bit is better than nothing.”

“I can never show my face in the scientific community again. I think for now I’m just going to wallow.”

“Fair enough.” John doesn’t want to think of his time in hospital, or the first month he’d been here, even as the memories rise up like words spoken underwater, bubbling into nothing intelligible. “I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

He climbs back on the chair, and slots the new fuse in. He tries to shake off the fog descending on his mind. After this he needs to see about cleaning the grill for the cookout he’s promised Teyla. The casing gets screwed back on. All done.

“I didn’t mean… I can’t even have a conversation properly now,” McKay sighs. He sounds like he’s talking to himself, and John should really leave it, and get on with his long list of tasks, but there’s something about McKay that makes John’s heart squeeze with something he hasn’t felt in years.

“You’re doing just fine.”

McKay takes a deep breath, pockets his hands and stands. “Thank you, and for the coffee,” he says with a decisive nod.

John warms at the bravado. Now that’s a language he knows. “You’re welcome to it any time.”

As he leaves, he realises he was telling the truth. McKay really is welcome in the little piece of the world he’s carved out for himself.

A day passes before he sees McKay again. He’s seen traces of him, in the steady decline and refilling of the coffee pot and empty mugs left in the sink which John refuses to clean.

“So,” Rodney greets, bustling into reception in shorts and a worn shirt that has a faded print of an atom on it. “What is there to do around here? I’ve spent the day sulking in my room and…” He huffs.

“There’s only so many times you can count the cracks?” John smirks. He’d done everything there was to do in a week. Somehow he doesn’t think the gun range or roller skate rink will appeal to McKay.

“Normally when I feel like this I work.”

John nods to save him from explaining further. “I know just the thing. Visit the planetarium.”

“You have one here?”

“Less light pollution. It’s only small, but there’s plenty of simulations to look at during the day in the dome if you’re bored.”

“Historical ones?”

“I dunno,” John flips a page of his comic. Emma Frost is about to save the planet by refreezing the ice caps. Cool.

“…What about food?”

John looks up. “What do you like?”

“Anything good.”

Closing his comic, John pulls out a printed A4 map of Lantis from a drawer. Blue biro in hand, he starts marking all the restaurants—there’s only four. He draws a bunch of stars and a moon by the planetarium. “Here, knock yourself out.”

“This one’s a supermarket?”

“With a bakery inside. They sell coffee, too.”

McKay nods approvingly. He starts to walk out, but then turns back. “Thanks, Sheppard.”

“Here,” John says, wanting to turn around and leave straight away. McKay’s room is still a mess liable to give him a headache.

“Wait,” McKay says, and John stops.

McKay picks up the keyring John deposited on the desk, one key and one plastic tag attached.

“What is it for?”

“Laundry room. Figured you could use it.”

McKay takes offence. “Are you saying I smell?”

“No—no—I,” John licks his lips. McKay does smell—like that awful cologne. “I was trying to be nice.”

“Oh.”

They stare at each other. The urgency with which John wants McKay to accept this kindness is unexpected. He wants to do the same things Teyla and Halling did for him when he first got here.

“Thanks, then.”

John leaves, McKay’s shy smile suddenly too much to bear.

The next morning John finds two packets of unopened coffee grounds on the counter next to the machine. Not just the bargain brand he usually buys that tastes just fine, but high end stuff.

He smiles as he sets to work brewing a fresh pot. He hadn’t been there when McKay got back, he’d been out picking up the skip for when Teyla’s friend, Ronon, arrives tomorrow to get started on clearing away the last of the damaged wing that couldn’t be saved. Even though none of the furniture made it, the foundations were solid and the load bearing walls had survived, even if most of the rest needed replacing.

“I see you found them.”

“Yeah. Thanks, McKay.”

Hot water hisses into the pot. John’s shoulders sag as he inhales the rich, bitter aroma.

“It’s as much for me as it is for you,” McKay sniffs.

“You can save face all you like…” John smirks. “But it’s appreciated.”

“They do have historic displays,” McKay says, passing his mug from hand to hand. It’s the yellow one with green stripes and two chips.

John hums an interested noise.

“There’s one of the five planetary alignments from 2000. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Jupiter and Saturn were all in line with the sun. Mars not quite, but NASA counted it anyway. I missed seeing it then because I was working on something, so getting to see it now was… breathtaking.”

As McKay talks, his face changes. The crags become fluid, his eyes lighting up, his slash of a mouth curling in a way that John wants to keep watching. Expressive, in ire and wonder in equal and opposite measure, like Newton’s second law of motion. _Handsome_ is the simpler word that comes to mind.

“How often does that happen?”

“Once every fifty to a hundred years, so there are a lot more special things, but…”

“It’s plenty special. I got to see a blood moon in the desert once.”

“Aha?” McKay says, not sounding as impressed as John had hoped.

“No light pollution. The world was soaked in blood.” Everything from that time was, but this one part had been beautiful, too, John realises.

“Blood?”

John shakes his head, turning away to pour their coffee.

When McKay sits on the seat next to his it feels natural. He doesn’t get the urge to move away like when he stops off at the bakery after his food shop, or if someone stands too close as he browses for sunscreen.

“They also have really advanced equipment for deep space telemetry. In fact, it’s more advanced than what I was able to access during my first PhD.”

“Doctor of cosmology, that’s great,” John smiles. A small part of him is relieved to know for sure that McKay’s not a corporate sell out.

“Actually it’s in astrophysics.”

“Even better. Wait—first?”

“I have two. What about you?” McKay asks.

“I run a motel.”

“And before that?”

John swallows around air. It’s not like it’s a secret.

“I was a test pilot in the Air Force.”

McKay’s eyebrows shoot up. “You have to be really smart for that.”

“So they tell me.”

“What did you do your degree in?”

John takes a sip of coffee, perfectly on the edge of being too hot. He wonders how McKay knows so much about the military, but then, he’s never said he’s a civilian scientist. “Mathematics.”

And McKay drags him into an hour long discussion of why his undergraduate thesis is complete horseshit, but as he watches McKay grin, stabbing his finger at John ineffectually to prove a point, he doesn’t mind so much. Besides, arguing with someone who knows what they’re talking about can be fun.

“…what would you do?”

John turns his head, squinting behind his shades, to look at McKay who’s sitting cross legged in the sun lounger next to his. Ever since they bonded over nerding out, McKay’s been searching him out, wanting to discuss abstract physics. It cuts into John’s schedule of reading comics and generally holding on by a thread, but he doesn’t mind.

“Have you fallen asleep again?”

“No,” John smiles, rolling onto his side to let the back of his neck—heavily sunscreened of course—absorb the warmth.

Across the dry grass out back of the motel Teyla’s tending the grill. Kanaan is stood next to her, on bun duty, while Ronon blows raspberries into Torren’s stomach. A few townies have joined them for the cookout, and to their exasperation, Halling, Amelia and Ford are trying to get them to form teams to play ultimate frisbee.

“Then listen. What I’m trying to ask you is important.”

John almost opens his mouth to tease, but he senses that what McKay wants to ask is serious. More serious than when he asked how he got hurt, or who his favourite physicist is.

“Okay.” The pit of John’s stomach goes still.

“If you could choose to do anything in the world right now, what would it be?”

“Anything?”

“Anything at all.”

“Realistic or could I, I don’t know, become Dr Fantastic?”

“Realistic. And with limited financial resources,” McKay adds, raising a finger.

John sips his beer, condescension clinging to his fingers as he puts the bottle down again. “Probably still this.”

“Not fly again?”

“I can’t.”

McKay looks ashamed as John has to remind him, patting his side.

“Still, this… place?”

John shrugs. “Why not. I only had a bag and my old car, I probably wasn’t going to make it much further.”

“What—you just rode up and bought this dump?”

The simplicity of the choice had been straightforward at the time, but looking back, John is overwhelmed. If he hadn’t followed that one crazy impulse he’d never have met Teyla or McKay or Ronon or any of the people at the cookout. “Yeah.”

McKay’s jaw drops comically.

“What? It’s not the worst decision I could have made,” John says.

“No…” McKay wakes his hand, coming back from wherever he’d just gone mentally. “No, it’s not that. I just had an idea.”

“Oh?”

“Definitely an idea.”

“What idea?”

“I’ll tell you on Monday.”

McKay has that mad scientist gleam in his eye John had learned not to question in his time as a test pilot. He sips his beer and decides to let it go.

“What about you? If you could do anything, what would it be?”

McKay smiles, close lipped and almost gentle. “I think I just figured it out.”

“Hey, ribs will be ready in five,” Ronon says, approaching with a stack of paper plates.

“Gimme,” McKay says, taking two.

John holds out his hand for his own. Noting Ronon’s frown, he explains, “McKay likes to eat for two.”

“That makes me sound pregnant! I just have a fast metabolism. Also, I’m not being greedy. Two plates are better at absorbing the sauce.”

“Ah, I didn’t realise this was an ingenious invention.”

Ronon’s smiling. “Do you have a patent yet?”

“Fine, you enjoy your sauce soaking into everything else you put on your plate to eat.”

John plucks another plate from the pile. “Can’t argue with science.”

McKay looks torn between further consternation and appeasement.

“I found someone to do the bathrooms,” Ronon says to John.

“Local?”

“Of course.”

They talk about the renovations a bit until the ribs are done, then Ronon’s boyfriend, Evan, is calling them all over.

“These are so good,” Teyla says, holding her hand up to cover her mouth as sauce drips down his fingers. Eagle eyed Evan passes her a napkin.

“You have really outdone yourself,” Kanaan agrees, rubbing a hand over Torren’s back, who is blissfully asleep in his sling.

“Awesome,” Ronon adds.

“Thanks everyone.” Evan pecks Ronon’s cheek indulgently, laughing when Ronon gives his ass a squeeze as he goes to fetch more ribs.

McKay’s got a similar sauce situation going on, but before John can reach for a napkin, McKay starts licking his fingers in broad strokes, finally taking whole fingers into his mouth. It’s a solution as straightforward and uncomplicated as the double plates. McKay leaves a shine of spit on his fingers, only to get them all messy again as he reaches for the next rib.

“Here,” Evan pushes a now full plate into John’s hands.

Everyone is right. They’re delicious and John eats until he’s about to burst.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a daze.

John is suddenly hyperaware of McKay, of how he will reach for John’s elbow to drag him into a conversation, using the same fingers he had almost deep throated earlier to tug at where he’s rolled his sleeves up.

Or how when he talks, and he talks a lot, he’ll say something clever or witty and his lips will curl, self satisfied, as if daring John to trace them with his own. It’s always like this: playing catch up with his own feelings. He hadn’t realised he wanted McKay until he was already half drowning with it.

He’d meant what he said earlier, that if he had the choice he would choose this life again. There’s a crazy freedom to having his own choices and letting himself stop when he needs it. To actually start to _know_ when he needs it. And to no longer have to walk a line so carefully, he worried he’d forget where it ended and he began.

The cookout ends with Teyla pleased at Ronon and John’s newfound friendship, and doubly pleased when Evan foists the leftovers at her. Ronon grumbles, but is appeased with a kiss. Halling and the others have trickled away over the course of the afternoon, and then it’s just John and McKay.

John sets about clearing up the worst of the mess before it gets dark. Although he is not usually one for sentiment, it tugs at him, how he never could have imagined this, but no longer wants to imagine his life differently.

He’s surprised when McKay helps, filling a trash bag and taking all the crockery into the kitchen. They hoist the grills back beside the wall together, and gather the few stray toys the kids had left.

Back in the kitchen McKay sets up shop at the sink, filling up the sink and letting the bubbles spill across the sideboard.

“We could leave them for tomorrow…” John whines, pleasantly exhausted and not overheated for once.

“No point in leaving it. Two is a team,” McKay smiles shyly, passing John a dish towel.

“Sure.” John runs his fingers over the check pattern.

McKay gets bubbles up to his elbows as he washes, rotating a glass to squeeze the sponge in with his broad hands. John stares, not startling as their fingers brush when McKay hands it over the glass, but needing a moment before he can settle into a rhythm of his own, passing the cloth over and over the glass until it’s dry and clear.

The glasses are tall and short, patterned and plain. Mismatched but well loved, like everything here. That’s how John feels, standing in the kitchen, his hands busy and mind drifting along the lines of McKay’s body. In love. With the motel. With not being alone.

It could be any of his friends standing there, and John believes he would have had the same revelation. But he’s glad it’s McKay.

McKay doesn’t need to speak as he hands him the largest serving dish with both hands, no chance of slippage in how sure he holds it. John imagines those hands on him, just as strong, running themselves over and over him until he feels clean as new.

The rest of the dishes pass in a blur of repetitive movements. His body has always been better at finding calm than his mind.

Setting the last dish down John’s hands clutch at the towel as McKay drains the sink. The soapy water circles the drain. His hands would be warm from the water, warmer than the air around them.

“McKay…” John manages, the word pressing itself against the muscles of throat and mouth like his body is an obstacle course.

McKay sighs. “Call me Rodney. All my friends do.”

“You have a lot of those?”

“John.” Rodney takes the dishtowel from his hands. “I’m glad the road I took lead to you.”

And then he kisses him.

His hands are warm. He cups John’s face, tilting it as he kisses John slowly, taking his time to drag and cling and press himself closer and closer.

John grabs his t-shirt. Twists the fabric as Rodney leads him, slowly coaxing until he deepens the kiss with a moan.

His back hits the edge of the counter, a twinge of pain making him grunt.

“John?”

“’S nothing.”

“Want to take this somewhere else?” Rodney asks. 

He doesn’t look like he’s trying to seduce John, he just looks happy. A finger tugs at one of John’s empty belt loops.

“Oh yeah.”

In his room, McKay runs his hands over his hips, catching the vulnerable spots that make him shiver. He holds him steadfast and strong, even as John wriggles, propelling them back towards the bed. 

Rodney strips him first. “God, you’re hot.”

He licks up John’s pec. “And hairy.”

John tugs him up with a hand under his jaw. “You have the stars in your eyes.”

“What?” Rodney half laughs, nosing up John’s cheek. “So many things you say make no sense.”

“You smile with your eyes. Like you’re doing now. They sparkle with starlight.” John kisses him again, tastes the cheap beer and last traces of barbecue sauce.

“Pants. Now.”

Rodney takes his own clothes off not a moment too soon. Then he’s on top of John on the bed, all skin and sweat.

John takes them both in his hand and Rodney bites his lip, whine straining past his lips. His face is half in shadow in the lamplight, and John wants to drink this moment in with more than his eyes.

Reaching below the bed he finds his lube where he left it. A squirt later everything is gliding, effortless even as John’s chest heaves with exertion. He focuses on the tug and pull of his hand, twisting his wrist before starting the whole process all over again.

“John,” Rodney whines.

John complies, twisting so he can kiss at Rodney’s neck. His free hands smooths over Rodney’s shoulders. They’re not shaking yet, but he’s tired and it’s hot and he knows that Rodney’s position is not the easiest to maintain, held up on his elbows so as not to rest any weight on John.

“Roll over.”

Rodney frowns, but lets himself be pushed onto his side. The angle with which John is fisting their cocks is more awkward, but he’s enjoying it, feeling his insides slowly turn to jelly.

“That’s better.”

“How?”

“I get to kiss you properly,” John smirks. But instead of going for his lips, he latches onto his throat. Careful not to break the skin, he spends what feels like an age gently suckling, first at his neck, then his shoulder, egged on by Rodney’s groans.

“Slower. Tighter,” Rodney pants. A nudge has John surfacing from his kissing deep dive.

Rodney’s hand covers John’s and slows him down. Tightens. Adjusts what John is doing as Rodney bites his lip. And he loves it. Loves that he’s doing this to Rodney. Loves how what Rodney is doing to him makes him feel.

“Fuck.” Rodney spills, hot against John’s stomach.

It just turns John on even more. Releasing Rodney, John takes himself faster, pushing himself over the edge.

Even as they come down, the expansive feeling that has been growing in John’s chest all day doesn’t dissipate.

Ronon helps John start on the skeleton for the new walls the next morning. Evan had helped with most of the heavy lifting and difficult work, but now it’s mostly standing, John no longer feels quite so useless.

Rodney left early that morning, hands reluctant to let him go after John had reeled him in for one last kiss. He’d made it a dirty one, but not even the trick with his tongue, his secret weapon, could change the laws of thermodynamics so that Rodney could stay without being late. John had just finished himself off in the shower and got dressed alone. Rodney would be moving on soon anyway, so maybe John should just try to enjoy himself.

“Have you got any long ones left?”

John reaches for another pack in the toolbox. He’s sat on an upturned bucket working on the bottom half of the slats while Ronon covers the higher ones.

“Here.”

They work for a while, Ronon occasionally humming along to the radio.

“This place will be really nice when it’s done. You made the right choice, keeping them separate.”

“I like to think so.”

“I know so. Feels better this way. Less noise, more privacy…”

“And an unbeatable grill set up.”

They share a grin.

“You know…” Ronon starts, haltingly. “I used to be special ops.”

“Did Teyla ask you to talk to me?” John says, irate.

“No. Actually, she said I shouldn’t.”

“Oh.”

“It’s never really the same. I’m lucky to have Evan. Even though part of me is always… life can be good, too.”

“I just have to let it,” John says, saying the words with the same meagre amount of conviction he can muster for his therapist.

“Or maybe you just have to stop fighting, and life will do the rest for you.”

But John’s not fighting anymore, is he?

He bashes another nail in, hissing through his teeth as his back twinges. Maybe not all fights look the same.

Rodney doesn’t leave. He knocks on John’s door every night like a broken clock, always there but rarely at the same time. Some nights they have sex, slowly learning likes and dislikes. John’s never been so turned on by how he can turn someone else on. Rodney likes to touch, to make John go slow when he wants to go fast, and it’s nothing like running ever was and it’s so. Much. Better.

Ronon and Evan help with the new wing. John gets a clipboard to hold while he orders people around and is put in charge of grouting. Torren throws up on his favourite shirt. Halling beats Ronon at frisbee and an endless stream of demands for rematches begins. John doesn’t hear from his family and for the first time the thought no longer bothers him. He starts buying painkillers in bulk and does his PT every damn day.

Rodney works at the planetarium, stars in his eyes one night and soaked with loss the next. His hands itch for his old job sometimes, twitching over his laptop and writing outlines for papers he won’t get to do the research for any time soon. He’s tight lipped about what happened, but John can put the pieces together.

Military research. Classifieds. Not being picked for NASA’s flagship research. And somehow it all imploded at a conference and Rodney has been hiding out here since.

John knows it can’t last. He reminds himself of it in the quiet moments when he’s alone, fog descending around him and focusing on how the world keeps moving without him. The wind against his legs. The smell of the honeysuckle growing up the wall. How hard his fingers are digging into his own arms. He still has his life, so he’ll be okay when Rodney leaves.

But after a month, when Rodney makes no sign of leaving and hands over next week's cash, grinning, John isn’t so sure anymore.

John’s first impression of Dr Elizabeth Weir is very wrong. He’d seen her drive up and approach the group milling around out back, wondering idly if she was Jennifer’s girlfriend or if they were broken up again; he has trouble remembering which it is. For such a small and dispersed town, there’s a lot of gossip.

Then the grill hisses, diverting his attention and earning him some teasing.

“You won’t graduate from grill school like that,” Evan shakes his head, mock stern. Ronon mimes making a note in an invisible notebook like he’s assessing him.

John laughs. “I failed my driving test the first time. This can’t be too much more difficult.”

Evan gasps. “Don’t slander this sacred art.”

“’S serious stuff,” Ronon agrees, eyes amused.

John raises his hands in surrender.

“I don’t care if you’re not a grillmaster,” Rodney huffs, as if insulting John meant that he, too, was insulted.

John gives him a grateful peck on the cheek.

“Rodney!” A brown haired woman calls, walking up to them.

John closes the lid of the grill, hanging the tongs on the rail.

“Elizabeth! I wasn’t expecting—I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

She stops a few feet away. Her shirt is rumpled, like she’s been on the road for hours. Introductions only take a few seconds, and then her full attention is back on Rodney.

“You stopped answering your phone.”

“It broke! I just haven’t gotten around to getting a new one. We were going to go the day after tomorrow.”

“Just like you were getting around to answering any of my emails about the job offer?”

Rodney cringes.

John is torn between wanting to smack for not telling him and tugging him away to safety as if Elizabeth’s reasonable enquiry is a hail of bullets. Instead, “I didn’t know about that,” John butts in unhelpfully.

“It’s classified,” Elizabeth says, but without the usual implications of superiority or defence that come with those two words. Her gaze returns to Rodney. “It’s right up your alley, though. A lot of things you’ve theorised about, you could work on them.”

“I already have a job, Elizabeth. We talked about this.”

“I… it didn’t sound permanent.”

John tries to step away. This is obviously part of a longer conversation that isn’t his business. But Rodney’s fingers curl around the straps of his apron, pinning him to his side.

“This is where I belong! I’m doing the kind of work I always dreamed of.”

“It won’t get you all the things you’ve told me you wanted. The awards, the money, the prestige… I just want you to be happy, Rodney.”

“I am. I’m happy here.”

Elizabeth looks lost. “It’s just… we know you, Rodney. Are you sure?”

“If I told myself three months ago, I wouldn’t have believed it either.”

Elizabeth smiles then, wide and true. “I’ll let the General know we need to find another astrophysicist.”

“Thank you.” Rodney says. “You should give it to Zelenka. Don’t tell him I said so, but he’s in a league beyond the other morons working in the department.”

The grill’s timer rings. John gratefully hoists open the lid. “Anybody want goujons?”

Elizabeth joins them at the large wooden table. It’s new, along with matching chairs and a few less rickety sun loungers.

“So, tell me about the planetarium.”

“I get to use the telescope and computers for a few hours most afternoons, and in the mornings I can use the dome.”

“He’s looking for E.T.,” John adds.

“Yes and no,” Rodney corrects, thin lipped. “I’m also researching the behaviour of dark matter and energy, the inconsistencies in light speed, and a whole other plethora of things NASA doesn’t give a damn about because they aren’t profitable.”

“We rejected those projects because of limited resources,” Elizabeth says with the air of a tennis player stuck in a squash hall.

“I know, I know, Mars is the priority.”

They catch up, Elizabeth talking a lot about people Rodney knows and John doesn’t, but maybe will someday. John serves up more food, wandering back to the table in between. It turns out Elizabeth is the head of the space program, and she must be good friends with Rodney to take the time to come and hunt him down out here in the weeds.

She meets a lot of the others, hitting it off with Teyla immediately and even throwing a frisbee about with Halling and his kids before circling back around to Rodney. He gets into it, all rapid fire hand gestures which John loves to watch, and Elizabeth laughs so hard she starts to cry. By the time they have to wind down, it’s with a wish that the afternoon could go on just that bit longer.

“It’s good that Rodney has people looking out for him,” Elizabeth says, shaking his hand with a twinkle in her eye before going to hug Rodney goodbye.

They don’t mention her visit again until later that night, when Rodney curls himself around John, thin blanket pulled up to their stomachs.

“I had no idea she would drive out to see me. I thought Jeannie might come eventually but…”

“You have people who care about you. That’s a good thing.” John turns to face him. “I care about you.”

“I never would have had the courage to quit if I hadn’t met you.”

“You’d have found it some other way.”

They fuck slowly that night, John laying his hands over Rodney’s on hips, arms crossed over his own stomach as if he’s afraid of his own guts spilling out.

Rodney’s pace isn’t perishingly slow or lethargic, it feels designed to make sure no part of John remains unattended as he thrusts, hands escaping John’s grip to wander and caress and hold. Rodney mouths at the nape of his neck as John pants, holding onto himself, onto Rodney, onto the sheets—anything he can reach as Rodney takes him over the rushing crest of the waterfall.

“You were worried,” Rodney says after, thumb wiping at the sweat beading on John’s brow.

“I,” John swallows.

“I’m not leaving. I don’t want to leave. This is home.”

And even though it’s still too hot for it, Rodney holds him close until John falls asleep, lulled by the steady beat of Rodney’s heart.

The first time John thinks it, he’s watching Rodney hold his fingers—not really burnt, but still very pink—under the cold tap after a coffee spill.

The first time he says it is when he surprises him after work, on the first day it’s finally cool enough to don a light jacket. He’s leaning against the back of the truck, and after Rodney greets him with a kiss and a grin, it’s only natural. “I love you.”

Rodney’s eyes widen, mouth wobbling until it smooths out into a soft smile.

“Love you, too.”

**2009**

“What do you think?” John asks, pulling the brand new sign out of the box.

“They printed it wrong.”

“What?”

“Here.” Rodney traces the red on white, where instead of _John and Rodney’s_ it just says _Rodney’s Pegasus Motel._

“I think Sharpie might come off in the rain,” John mutters.

“I know calligraphy. If you pick up some paint, I can fix it.”

Rodney fixes the sign so that it proudly proclaims the motel as theirs, and John gets to watch Rodney do some very finicky work with a paintbrush, the logical consequence to which is to blow him right there, that’s how turned on he is.

Later, once the sign is dry and hung, Teyla takes a picture of them standing under it for the motel’s website. Rodney insists on wearing his suit, and Teyla makes him pose with the gas pumps. John thinks he’s escaped the ordeal, but later finds a candid of himself on the website alongside Rodney’s shots for _Vogue_. On the screen John is smiling, happy and content, and in reality John smiles, too, knowing full well that he was ogling Rodney’s ass when Teyla took the picture.

When they finish the second building, she gets one of him and Ronon, looking extra cheesy in their hardhats and tool belts despite the last few days having mostly consisted of picking up furniture and setting the rooms up inside. Rodney is the one who insists Evan take a picture of all four of them at the last cookout of the summer, which he gets framed and hangs behind the reception desk.

**2014**

“I thought something was supposed to happen?” John asks.

“There’s still a few minutes until the blood moon,” Rodney says, fussing over the blanket they have draped over themselves.

The planetarium is packed tonight, booked full with guests from neighbouring towns as well as the usual starstruck crowd, which is why Rodney has driven them out past Jennifer’s farm and Halling’s combination automobile and DIY store, to where they can watch it away from the crowds and light pollution.

The blanket is the same one that usually covers their bed. John’s the one who pulls it across every morning after Rodney leaves the bed rumpled, and Rodney’s usually the one holding it up so John can slide in beside him.

“It’s starting!” Rodney draws him back to the sky in front of them.

As Rodney narrates what is happening in nauseating scientific detail, John tries to shut it out as he watches red spill across the light. The last time he saw a moon like this was above the desert. It had been like a prophecy, for the months of missions that followed. There had been so much death.

Rodney’s arms around him keep him in the present. It’s warm, and the leftovers from their picnic are just an arm away. The red of the moon is the same red as Rodney’s car, the one he stubbornly refuses to sell even as he launches into a tirade of how impractical it is.

“Hey Rodney,” John says, cutting off a particularly uninteresting tangent about tidal forces. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the picnic. For this. For being you. For being such a terrible driver you ended up here.”

Instead of defending his skill at the wheel, Rodney kisses the top of his head and holds him closer. 


End file.
